


Twelfth Century Wizard, Twenty-First Century Witch

by SailorFish



Category: Tales of Arcadia (Cartoons), Wizards (Tales of Arcadia)
Genre: 900 Years Of European History, Again, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Friendship, Gen, Male-Female Friendship, Post-Canon, Teacher-Student Relationship, Wizards Spoilers (Tales of Arcadia), lots of fluff ok
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-19
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:09:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25992658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SailorFish/pseuds/SailorFish
Summary: When Douxie comes back with the tea, she says it bluntly: “I’d like to be your apprentice.”In which Claire apprentices herself to a master wizard. And then slowly realizes that said wizard is a 900-year-old walking disaster. Post–Wizards, a Claire and Douxie friendship fic.
Relationships: Hisirdoux "Douxie" Casperan & Claire Nuñez, Jim Lake Jr./Claire Nuñez
Comments: 94
Kudos: 399





	1. 12th Cent. Wizard, 21st Cent. Witch

**Author's Note:**

> This is a follow–up to [Nineteen Plus Nine Hundred, Give or Take](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25920571), but you don’t have to read it. Avauntfox commented that it’d be interesting to see the Arcadia team deal with the fact that Douxie has literally lived through 900 years of history, and I ran with the thought.

_1100s._

Claire breathes in and out deeply. She sits up straight and folds her hands on the table like her mom does in meetings. She’s kicked the others out (well, politely asked Archie to go on a walk with Nari) to have this moment alone with Douxie. She’s marshalled her thoughts and arguments. She’s ready.

When Douxie comes back with the tea, she says it bluntly: “I’d like to be your apprentice.”

Douxie nearly drops one of the mugs. Okay, not a great start.

“My apprentice? You’re joking,” he laughs as he sets a mug down in front of her. “I don’t think there’s a single thing I could teach you about shadow magic. You could be teaching _me!_ ”

“Maybe not shadow magic,” Claire admits. “But the rest of it. Other types of magic. What being a wizard means. I want to learn, Douxie, and I _know_ you’d be really good at teaching it.” At that, he goes a little red. But she’s not saying anything that isn’t true. “You need teachers to get better. Jim had Blinky, Strickler, Vendel, Draal, Nomura. I’ve had… well… Morgana, kind of, and a few books. It’s not enough.”

Douxie nods slowly, consideringly. “You may have a point. But _me?_ I don’t think…”

He has that face on again. It’s the I’m-not-good-enough face that Merlin grinds into people. The sight of it makes her seethe inwardly. It looks no better on Douxie than it does on Jim.

“Yes, _you_. You already taught me, remember?” They both wince as they remember the Lady of the Lake. “And that was under _horrible_ circumstances. Doux, I can’t think of anyone better.”

“Or anyone at all, really,” murmurs Douxie – which, okay, point.

She’s not sure if there _are_ any other wizards left. Not hedge wizards like at Hex Tech, butpowerful ones, like Merlin or Morgana or Douxie. Or Claire, kind of. Surely they’d come to help against the Arcane Order? But the thought of all of this knowledge, all the magic books and spells, being for just the two of them is overwhelming. She’ll just pretend that the other wizards definitely exist and have their own super important missions to take care of.

From the way Douxie’s tapping his fingers on the table, the thoughts running through his head are similar.

“Alright,” Douxie says slowly. Claire’s heart hammers loudly in her chest; he holds up a finger before she can speak. “Ah-ah-ah. Alright. _But_ we’ll start after the Arcane Order is defeated.”

“ _What?!_ ”

“Right now I have to keep Nari safe. We’re always on the move. You, on the other hand, have AP Biology at 8AM tomorrow.”

“Okay, so we can’t train every day. But I can – ”

“ _More importantly_ , it isn’t safe, Claire. Our last battle with the Order was… a bit more luck than I’m really comfortable with. I’m not bringing you into something I’m not sure you can get out of.” 

Claire’s lips are pressed tight. Some girls, she knows, have the back luck to have only terrible, undependable, useless men in their life. It’s Claire’s curse to be stuck with decent, honorable, self–sacrificing ones.

“You know there’s no way we’re going to let you fight them alone, right?”

She’s not sure Douxie _does_ know. He says softly, “It’s a wizard’s burden to bear.”

“Yeah,” Claire says. She plays her trump card. “Good thing I’m a wizard.”

At that, he throws his hands up and just glares at her. She glares right back. Claire’s bent her will over _Morgana_ ; Douxie isn’t in the same weight category. A full minute of tense silence passes. And then Douxie suddenly groans. He rakes a hand over his face. With that exhausted, exasperated expression, he looks remarkably like Merlin.

 _Claire’s won_. 

“Arguing with your master already,” he grumbles. “Apprentices weren’t allowed to get away with things like that in the twelfth century.”

“Ah, but master,” says Claire and grins wide enough to hurt. “This is the twenty-first.”

_1600s._

Claire learns pretty quickly what it means to be apprenticed to a wizard. It takes her a while longer to learn what it means to be apprentice to – to be friends with – a _nine-hundred-_ year-old wizard.

The Order’s safely on the other side of the world, chasing a fake lead Douxie’s set out; the Guardians of Arcadia, plus friends, are having a campfire in Jim’s backyard. It’s one of those great summer nights: warm and full of fireflies. Jim’s readying the sausages for people to grill over the fire; Strickler and Douxie are casually arguing whether it’ll be a bigger problem if a cop sees Douxie with a beer or if a cop sees Strickler, period; Nari’s actually _dozing_. Claire’s never seen her let her guard down that much before.

“And now it’s time for the most important part of the evening!” Toby says. “Spooooky stories!”

He’s leaning in as close as is comfortable over the flames, so his face is all lit up from below. Jim’s new kinda–siblings shriek in delight. All the changeling familiars _love_ Toby, maybe more than they do Jim, who’s intensely awkward around them. It bugs Jim, and it bugs Jim that it bugs him, and that makes him even more awkward.

Sure enough, Jim’s skewering the sausages with way more force than necessary. Claire sighs, exasperated and fond. She turns to share a laugh with Douxie about it.

And finds him bone white. He’s staring at the campfire like it’s murdered someone. There’s a crash: he’s stumbled back from the flames and into some empty bottles. Now _everyone’s_ turned to stare at Douxie. Archie is suddenly wrapped around his shoulders like a very comforting scarf.

“Hisirdoux, are you al – ” begins Blinky.

“He’s fine!” blurts Strickler. “The master wizard and I are just – uh – going to get more hotdog buns. Jim, should we grab anything else?”

He throws a meaningful look Jim’s way. Claire spares a second to be grateful: now that the two have made up, they work together really well. Jim assures Strickler that there’s nothing, and then loudly distracts everyone with sausages while the changeling hustles Douxie away. Claire worriedly watches Douxie stumble.

It’s not even a conscious decision. She carefully puts her plate down and sneaks into the shadows after them.

She finds them at the downstairs bathroom. Quietly, she crouches down behind the couch. Douxie is splashing water on his face; Strickler leans against the wall right outside, like he’s keeping watch. Archie murmurs something to Douxie she can’t hear.

“Were you in Europe much during the sixteen hundreds?” Douxie says quietly.

“Ah,” says Strickler. “Fortunately, no.”

Claire has no idea what the seventeenth century has to do with anything. _Jim_ is Strickler’s star student, not her.

“Not a good time for wizards,” Douxie remarks. He’s out of the bathroom now, and slides down the wall to sit on the ground, head tipped back against it. Claire thinks his hair might be wet, like he dunked his whole head under the sink. Archie curls up in his lap. “ _Terrible_ time for wizards, actually.”

“I can’t imagine.”

“Lots of spooooky stories,” says Douxie.

He waggles his fingers, imitating Toby, and then both Douxie and Strickler are laughing. It’s not a very happy sound. Goosebumps crawl up Claire’s arms. In some ways, her teacher is a complete mystery to her.

“Douxie!” Archie scolds, but with more worry than heat.

“It’s fine, Arch,” says Douxie. “I’m fine. Let’s just stay here a bit before we go back, yeah?”

Tentatively, Strickler reaches down to clasp Douxie’s shoulder. He’s always polite around the master wizard – cautious. With a jolt, Claire realizes that even if he were the first changeling Morgana created, he’d still be younger than Douxie. It’s a bizarre, uncomfortable thought.

“I’ll go distract the others with food,” says Strickler. “Wouldn’t want to leave them in suspense.” He huffs a little. “And I don’t think I’m leaving you without company.”

Claire winces – it’s clear he’s spotted her. Still, she waits until the back-door clicks shut behind him before she pops out. Douxie and Archie had _not_ spotted her, but neither of them looks particularly surprised.

“So, how much of that did you get?” says Douxie.

Claire hesitates for a moment, but why lie? She sits down opposite of him, cross-legged.

“I _heard_ all of it,” she confesses and Douxie looks away. “But I’m not sure I _got_ any of it. What happened in the seventeenth century? Are you okay?”

“Douxie’s fine,” snaps Archie. Bristling, defensive. “There’s nothing wrong with him.”

“Archie…” and “That’s not what I meant,” begin Douxie and Claire at the same time.

“I’m really fine,” says Douxie again. “Toby should just learn to… not lean over fires. I’ve seen too many people fall in.” He laughs that grim little laugh again, but Claire isn’t Strickler. She must continue to look utterly blank because Douxie sighs and says softly, “Lots of witch trials in seventeenth century Europe, Claire.”

Claire finally gets it.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

They sit quietly together then, lost in thought. Claire thinks about what it must be like for Douxie. _Nine hundred years_. The other ancient beings she’s met kept to themselves; Blinky and AAARRRGGHH!!! don't have much to say about human affairs. Nine _hundred_ years. Claire feels very small.

All that stuff she learns about in history class: the American Revolution, the Battle of Waterloo, Hannibal crossing the Alps with elephants. To her, it’s just Strickler’s powerpoints and unrealistic blockbusters ‘inspired by’. To Douxie, it’s… life.

Okay, maybe not Hannibal crossing the Alps. Claire racks her brains to remember something about British history. Uh, Henry the VIII’s six wives? Not a trivia fact or a catchy musical – the uncertainty that comes with a split from the Catholic Church. She’s pleased with herself for remembering, and then feels silly for being pleased.

She doesn’t know what Douxie’s thinking about.

At last though, he gently shoves Archie off and jumps up. The dark circles under his eyes look more visible to her than usual, but the quiet, sad funk he was in is over like it never happened in the first place. After dusting himself off, he offers Claire a hand up too.

“Alright! Enough moping!” Douxie says. “Lo que pasó, pasó. Jim tells me that’s Spanish for ‘race you to the sausages’.”

“It really isn’t,” says Claire but races him anyway.

_1200s._

“I’m fine,” says Douxie once again.

He does not sound any more fine. He sounds like he has the mother of all colds, which is an inconvenient thing for him to have when they’re supposed to be setting a trap for the Order tomorrow.

“I just need some toast,” he insists.

“Toast?”

Claire blinks. She’d thought this was a normal cold, not a stomach flu; he should be able to eat a bit more than toast. Douxie sticks one hand out of his nest of blankets and waves it vaguely.

“Or – or rice or something. Anything dry. You know, to balance the humors.”

“To balance the _what_ now?” Claire gawps at him.

Her abuela clucks over her going outside with wet hair; her dad swears by garlic tea when anyone in the family has a sniffle. They would both laugh themselves sick at _balancing the humors_. That’s medieval stuff. Is it some kind of magical wizard cure?

“He hasn’t gotten sick much since the thirteenth century,” says Archie. A little snidely, he adds, “I’m told that idiots don’t get colds.”

Nope. It actually _is_ medieval stuff.

Douxie sneezes loudly, then adds a horrible-sounding cough for good measure. He rasps out, “Alright, to balance the germs then. Germ theory. Absolutely.”

“He’s quite good when it comes to life-threatening wounds and such,” Archie sighs. “And absolutely hopeless about everything else.”

“Give me a break, Arch.”

“We’re not balancing anything,” says Claire firmly over Douxie hacking up another lung. “Jim’s mom gave us some Tylenol and stuff.” She hesitates. Balancing humors is medieval, but Douxie looks absolutely unimpressed by the little white capsules in her hands. Placebo effect is a thing, right? She compromises with, “And then you can have some garlic tea. My dad’s family recipe.”

 _That_ perks Douxie up. Unlike Claire and Enrique, he downs the tea without complaint. And whether it’s Jim’s mom’s medicine or Claire’s dad’s tea (or the toast she catches him sneaking later), by morning he’s fit and ready to fight.

_1800s._

When the slow song comes on in the school’s Homecoming dance, Jim leads her into a waltz. All the other kids are just holding each other and swaying back and forth, but Jim’s feet are confident as they glide across the room. Claire’s feet are confident too. This dance is going way better than their last one.

“Jim!” she says over the warm feeling bubbling in her chest. “Did you take dancing lessons without me?”

“No! Uh – well – maybe?”

She nudges a little closer to him than is proper waltz form; his grip around her tightens automatically. Sheepishly, he grins and admits, “I wanted to surprise you.”

Claire executes a neat little twist with her foot that had taken Douxie two days to teach her. Time well spent, by the look in Jim’s eyes.

“That’s really sweet,” she says. “But partner dances don’t work so well when only one person knows the moves.”

Jim groans.

“He promised me he wouldn’t tell you! Like top-secret training. He even forced me to learn the minuet first, to prove that I was committed. Or hard-working, or something.”

In fact, Douxie hadn’t quite told her that Jim was learning how to waltz. He’d carefully stared at the ceiling as he explained that the magic world lived longer and therefore moved slower, and it would be quite practical to learn some old-fashioned dances, e.g. polkas, minuets, waltzes. In case she ever gets invited to a magical ball. Pride and Prejudice and Wizards.

Claire hadn’t fully gotten her hopes up, in case Douxie really was just trying to be a good wizard mentor, but… she’d been _pretty_ sure. The warm feeling in her chest spreads, makes her feel giddy. She’s twice lucky: the best boyfriend and the best teacher.

“He taught me the minuet too,” she laughs.

Jim blinks.

“Do you… think he secretly misses the minuet?”

There’s a little furrow between his eyebrows now and concern in his voice; he nearly loses the count for a moment. That’s Jim all over. He’s honestly so _nice_ sometimes, so caring, it makes her want to kiss him and never let go. He also doesn’t know Douxie very well yet.

“I think he enjoys teasing gullible teenagers and would be happier in a mosh pit.”

But when the next song comes on, they share a look, and switch to that odd, half-hopping, half-tiptoeing dance. There’s something to be said for the classics.

_1400s._

For all that he dresses like a punk, Douxie’s kinda old-fashioned in some ways. He doesn’t treat her like a damsel or anything (she’d go Rule Three on him if he tried), but now that she’s officially his student, he’s determined to meet her parents. Claire doesn’t know anything about Douxie’s; maybe it had been important for Merlin to meet them, or maybe Merlin hadn’t cared enough to and it had stung. 

Either way, her parents are equally keen, so she cautiously sets up dinner.

On sight, Douxie does _not_ make a good impression. Tattoos, blue streaks, punk jewelry. Even in a nice button–down shirt, he looks nothing like the powerful, diligent sorcerer she’d described. Her mom’s eyebrows are already at her hairline. But Claire’s confident it won’t take her parents as long to like _this_ guy as it had Jim. For one, they’re not dating. For another, Douxie has a fancy British accent. 

“Mom, dad, this is Dou – uh, Hisirdoux Casperan, my new magic teacher. Douxie, meet my parents, Ophelia and Javier Nuñez.”

Her parents murmur greetings and she confidently waits for Douxie to say something suave and sophisticated (and British) in response.

It’s rare that Douxie disappoints her, but when he does it is with gusto. Instead of shaking her parents’ hands like a normal person, Douxie bows a courtly bow – oh _God_ – and comes out with a whole stream of Spanish.

Claire thinks it’s Spanish anyway. Her family usually speaks English at home, and though summer trips to relatives have left her fluent enough to discuss normal things with ease (football, politics, family gossip), she’s not fluent enough for this. As far as she can tell, Douxie seems to have come out with the equivalent of Spanish Shakespeare. She’s not sure her _parents_ understand it.

He pops up with a broad smile, which fades when he takes stock of their faces. All the Nuñez’s are staring.

“Too much?” he murmurs to Claire out of the side of his mouth.

“ _Way_ too much, Teach.”

“Ah. My apologies! I haven't had much occasion to use Spanish since – ” Douxie interrupts himself with another quiet whisper to Claire. They should have gotten their stories straight beforehand. “How much do they know?”

“Uh, everything, more or less.”

“Since the Reconquista. Some stuff went down and, well.” Douxie shrugs awkwardly. “And my friends in the New World prefer I muddle along in pre-Columbian languages, of course. So unfortunately there wasn’t much chance to… keep up to date,” he trails off, rubbing the back of his neck.

Oookay, clearly Claire has really underestimated how important this meeting is for Douxie. Nervous historical babbling is a _little_ better than nervous Spanish babbling, but not by much. Why do all her friends have to be so weird about parental figures?

Naturally, Claire’s mom recovers first.

“Well! Maybe in addition to magic you can get Claire to read _Don Quixote?_ ” She nudges Claire, who rolls her eyes. “She needs the practice.”

“After my time, I’m afraid,” says Douxie politely.

Her mom’s smile grows a little fixed.

“ _Why don’t we eat!_ ” says Claire, in the hopes this nightmare of an evening ends faster.

The nightmarish aspect does eventually end. Not because Douxie gets any more sophisticated and suave – that ship has sailed – but because Claire remembers that Douxie’s third appealing-to-parents attribute is being _British_. After a few cautious assurances on both sides that nobody at the table means _American_ football, everyone finally relaxes. The rest of dinner is spent cackling over Barcelona’s recent 8–2 humiliation.

When they’ve finished waving goodbye to Douxie (he bows again), Claire’s dad quirks an eyebrow at her.

“He’s really nine hundred?”

“ _Yup_.”

“You really know how to pick them, mija.”

“Well I liked him,” declares Claire’s mother. “I’m _relatively_ sure he told us he’d protect Claire with his life.” She grins. “And he called me ‘my Lady’.”

In the House of Nuñez, what Claire’s mom says goes. Next week her parents invite Douxie over to watch a game. Claire ends up sneaking out to Jim’s during half-time, but she’s pleased nonetheless.

_1700s._

In contrast to Jim, Claire was never really into history. She gets her A’s by working hard, not out of passion. Going on adventures with Jim and Douxie feels like an accelerated crash course in everything she’s missed.

“Batten down the hatches!” Douxie roars. “Time to bring a spring upon her cable. Nari, get to the dungbie. Claire, Jim – I need you starboard. Smartly now! Everyone else – _heave ho!_ We’re going to scuttle them.”

He’s sprinting to the helm as he yells. Jim and Claire scurry to do as he asks – though Jim has to pull her arm when she goes the wrong way first. Claire leans over the railing. Somewhere far, far below them lies the Grand Canyon. It’d be nice to visit, if they can make it through this night. The Arcane Order’s ship looms out of the clouds like an inconvenient asteroid.

Then everyone’s screaming as they’re nearly thrown off the ship. Douxie’s swung it ‘round 180 degrees. They’re no longer fleeing the Order. They’re _charging_ them. There’s something a little mad in the master wizard’s eyes.

“Yes, yes, shiver me timbers,” mutters Archie.

Walking primly along the railing, he’s the only one completely unruffled. Probably because he’s the only one who understands what Douxie’s yelling.

Jim licks his lips. His voice is still a little shaky as he calls out, “H-hey Doux, you never told us what you were up to in the early 1700s, did you?”

For a moment, Douxie takes his eyes off the Order’s ship. He throws up the devil horns as he grins at Jim and Claire.

“I was at sea, matey.”

The 1650s to the 1720s, Jim explains to her later, was the Great Age of Piracy.

_1900s_.

“You sound like a Youtube comment, Doux.”

“ _Excuse me?_ ”

“‘Back in my day, we listened to _music_. Not this godawful racket.’”

“What!” squawks Douxie. “I would never. I was literally listening to Babymetal on the ride over!”

Okay, it’s true, he wouldn’t. Douxie’s equally enthusiastic about songs written in 2014 as he is about songs written in 1972, as long as they’re loud and have a good guitar riff. Still.

“‘When I was young, we knew how to _rock_.’”

“Don’t blame me for finding Queen’s _A Night at the Opera Tour_ historic, Claire. It was quite literally historic.”

“‘These young whippersnappers are too scared to get their sneakers dirty. They’d never survive a _real_ mosh pit.’”

It’s just easier for Claire to take him seriously when he waxes rhapsodic about fifteenth century scones or whatever, not about stuff actual old people reminisce about.

_1300s._

“Not the time, Toby!” Douxie calls.

“Michelangelo? Raphael? Donatello?”

Now he’s just listing Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Claire laughs, then yelps as she has to duck another one of Bellroc’s fire spells. Luckily, Jim’s there to distract the sorcerer while she gets her footing back.

“Contrary to popular movies, living during a certain time period doesn't mean having met all the important historical figures of said time period,” Archie somehow has the breath to say. “Have _you_ met Barack Obama or Malala Yousafzai?”

It’s a fair point. Just as they practiced, AAARRRGGHH!!! gives her a boost up and she hurls a blast of shadow magic energy right into Skrael’s smug face. As the energy crackles and sparks across her fingertips, a part of Claire is in awe at how much _easier_ it all is, now that she’s got Douxie as a teacher. Another part of her is pondering sadly that the most famous (non-magical) person _she’s_ met is probably her mom, local councilwoman.

Douxie’s voice is unbearably smug when he says, “But I _did_ meet Guillaume de Machaut.”

“Never heard of him,” says Toby.

“Gillam duh Whatchit?” says Steve.

“Who’s that, Teach?” says Claire.

Even Jim and Strickler exchange quick, puzzled glances.

“STOP YOUR BABBLING!” Bellroc roars. “DO NOT PRESUME TO IGNORE US!”

“He was the Ritchie Blackmore of his time!” Douxie sputters, ignoring them. Only Strickler looks mildly enlightened, so he switches tracks. “The – the Billie Eilish of the thirteen hundreds. The Drake of late medieval music. The French BTS.”

Claire’s pretty sure he’s just throwing out any musical references he thinks they might get. His magical attacks have become a little sloppier and a _lot_ stronger in his irritation. Like a good apprentice, Claire pretends she’s impressed by his brush with fame, and goes _aaah_ appreciatively.

“Don’t patronize me, apprentice,” says Douxie. He wags his finger. “You’re not getting out of listening to the _Messe de Nostre Dame_. Right after… we finish… this!”

He twists his arm and the whole room explodes.

When Claire blinks away the light, the Order is gone. Not for ever. But the trap had _worked_. For the next decade at least, Nari’s safe. They’re all safe.

Claire sighs in pure, unadulterated relief. She has to hand it to Toby: as distractions go, arguing about meeting famous historical people is a good one. Slowly, she starts picking her way through the rubble to Jim. They all deserve a vacation and Jim most of all. Suddenly, a hand claps onto her shoulder.

Claire whirls around, staff at the ready, but it’s just Douxie. He’s grinning broadly.

“Ah-ah-ah,” he says. “I wasn’t joking about the _Messe_.”

Being apprenticed to a nine-hundred-year-old wizard is such a drag sometimes.

_1500s._

Claire tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. She still feels a little foolish. The only reason she’s going through with it is because Jim had threatened to do it instead if she couldn’t.

“Um… Douxie,” she says, eyes darting around everywhere. “It’s just a high school production and I’m sure you’ve seen better over the years, but I was wondering if,” she speeds up like that’ll make it better, “you’d-like-to-come-to-see-our-show?”

Her face burns. Inviting her mentor, her cool older brother figure, to her high school play is mortifying. Even when she knows he’s actually kind of a dork. Case in point, when she meets his eyes, he’s beaming at her.

“I’d be honored.”

He sounds absolutely sincere, which helps her say, “Great!” and “See you there!” and throw a leaflet at him before she flees.

It’s kind of embarrassing how embarrassed she is about it. Claire knows she’s a pretty good actress for someone who really doesn’t have the time for professional training. She’s even got the lead part again: Beatrice in Shakespeare’s _Much Ado About Nothing_. (This time around Jim did _not_ get the role of her love interest, Benedick, but that’s okay. They don’t exactly need a stage play to make out anymore.) But though all the theater kids work hard, they’re still just that. Kids.

When it comes to magic, Douxie treats her as a partner, if a junior one. But the Order’s gone (for now) and everything’s slower and calmer in Arcadia. She’s kind of hesitant for him to see her as a child again.

On the night of the premiere, Claire acts the _heck_ out of Beatrice.

Douxie is standing with her parents when she finally disentangles herself from her castmates’ hugs, squealing, and posing for Instagram pics. There’s a big bouquet of flowers in his hands, like she’s a real actress. (The miniscule part of her that had had a crush on the charming, older British guy – before she and Jim had gotten together _really_ properly, before she’d actually gotten to know Douxie – blushes.)

Then, to her dismay, she spots a trace of tear tracks on his face. They really shouldn’t be there; _Much Ado About Nothing_ is one of Shakespeare’s _comedies_.

“You were wonderful,” he says quietly as he hands her the bouquet.

“Doux, are you okay?” she says back just as quietly.

“Yeah, sure.” He wipes at his eyes once. “Just nice to see that some things survive over the years, you know?”

The thing is, by now Claire understands that she _doesn’t_ know. Not really. She’s only seventeen. She wouldn’t really know until she’s nine hundred, and at that point Douxie would be _one thousand_ nine hundred, so she still wouldn’t really know.

What’s it like to live that long? What’s it like for most of the people you’ve met to be not only dead, but mostly forgotten? Even the ones who are not just your personal friends – the random farmer on Cyprus and the random baker in Amsterdam – but the most famous musician of the continent or the richest man of the century?

Nine _hundred_ years. The play they just put on is only a little over four hundred, and Claire had still has to read it with a modern translation on the side. If asked, like half her classmates would confidently say Shakespeare is ancient, probably lived during the Middle Ages. And yet, _Much Ado About Nothing_ is only half as old as Douxie. Claire still feels very small.

Claire is seventeen. She _is_ still a kid. No, she doesn’t know. But at least she knows what to do when her friend needs a hug.

_2000s_.

For somebody who’s actually nine hundred years old, Douxie passes as a teenager surprisingly well.

Except.

“Okay, rule one: stop ending your sentences with periods!”

“But it’s the end of the sentence,” says Douxie.

“It makes you sound angry. I thought you were _furious_ with me after I texted you about finding Calypso’s Spellbook.” She affects her most Merlin-like voice. “ _I told you not to wander off alone_ – period. _Stay in the cave until I get you_ – period.”

Douxie looks genuinely taken aback. Her relationship with Douxie is so much healthier than his relationship with Merlin had been. When Claire messes up, he doesn’t berate her; they talk about it and then he continues to trust her to do her best in the future.

She’s joking about it now, but that thing with the spellbook had been the one time she’d really braced herself for a taste of what Douxie used to get daily. It had been early on in their mentorship; they’d still been getting used to each other. Douxie’s a good guy, but nobody’s perfect, and he’s only had the one role model for what it means to be a master wizard.

“That was just the end of the sentence!” Douxie protests. “I was a bit worried, not upset.”

“Well, you could have told me that with a facepalm emoji and three exclamation marks, Doux.”

Douxie rakes his fingers through his hair and groans. There’s a bit of guilt around his eyes. Maybe he’s remembering the two hours she’d waited for him to pick her up, how set her face had been. Finally, he tosses his phone to Claire, who promptly deletes the _terrible_ message he’d been trying to send Zoe.

“Fine, fine. Please just fix it.”

“I guess it’s time for the student to become the master,” Claire smirks. She flexes her fingers. “Pay attention, apprentice.”

Douxie groans again. But he’s always given his young apprentice as much trust as he wishes he himself had been given. He pays attention.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fic's actually complete here. The next chapter is a coda - an alternative '2000s'. Thanks for reading!


	2. CODA: 2000s

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This coda is an ‘alternative’ version of the 2000s section, but it didn’t quite fit with the tone of the fic. To be honest, I hesitated over posting it, but… it’s not only Douxie’s who’s lived ‘through history’ - we’re all doing it too. I know a lot of people read fic to get away from the news, so heads up: the coda’s set in Spring/Summer 2020.

Mostly, she visits to get out of the house a bit.

Claire gets the point of lockdown. But Douxie’s in her quarantine bubble (along with the Lakes and the Domzalskis), and yeah, his current apartment’s across the country, but it’s not like she’s using public transportation to get there.

With all her haphazard online classes and a toddler brother who _doesn’t_ turn into a petty criminal troll at night, it’s been an exhausting month in an exhausting year. Her parents are antsy about closed borders; they skype with her relatives in Mexico near every day. It’s uncomfortably claustrophobic to be stuck in her childhood home after so much travelling. Jim is a worrier.

Douxie’s place is quiet and far away and _Claire really needs that._

Like the rest of them, Douxie takes the Corona regulations seriously; unlike the rest of them, he’s not really stressed. (Although he’s technically in the at-risk group, Claire considers doubtfully, being over 60.) This is the first big non-magic crisis in Claire’s life. Douxie, she realized after some late-night googling, lived through the Black Death.

It’s weirdly soothing.

They usually sit around pouring over spellbooks or playing boardgames. Today, however, Douxie is frowning intently at his phone. He’s been out of it all evening; one of his legs is twitching. Suddenly, decisively, he jumps up.

Truly alarmed now, Claire asks, “What’s wrong?”

“Oh – nothing, nothing!” he tells her with a smile. “Sorry, I just gotta go, uh, out for a bit. There’s more pizza in the fridge, and Arch’ll be around if you need something.”

“Can I help – ”

“ _Nope!_ ” Douxie looks so horrified at the thought, Claire can’t help her flinch. “Remember: pizza, Archie, and you have my phone number if you need it.”

Claire rolls her eyes before he can do something truly humiliating like pat her on the head. She tamps down the tight, angry feeling in her stomach. Claire isn’t a nine-hundred-year-old witch, she hasn’t survived the Black Death, she’s using Douxie’s home like a security blanket. But they’d travelled through time together; they’d fought Morgana together. Wasn’t that worth something?

“I won’t starve,” she says.

As soon as he’s gone, Claire checks her phone too. There’s more BLM protests on tonight. There have been protests in Arcadia too, but they’re more – symbolic. Basically their entire school has marched down the familiar roads these past weeks, chanting. (The first time they went, Darci had teared up and gripped Claire’s hand tightly.) Douxie, however, lives in a big city. Here the protests are accompanied by tear gas, rubber bullets, batons. Claire hugs her knees to her chest.

It’s been an exhausting year.

At around 3 o’clock – around when Claire’s phone informs her the protests are winding down – the door quietly creaks open. She scrambles off the couch. By now, she’s figured out where Douxie probably went. When she gets to the hallway, she freezes. Her heart is hammering hard in her chest.

She’s fought an evil immortal witch and terrifying monsters from legend, but Claire still grew up in the suburbs. Dressed all in black, most of his face still covered by a scarf, and a bit of red near his fingers, Douxie looks like one of the boys her mom warned her about. He looks _dangerous._

Not in the usual way – not like a master wizard. Like a punk who isn’t in it just for the aesthetic. Like a punk who spent the last five hours yelling at cops.

He pulls down the scarf and goes to the sink to wash his hands. She forces herself not to step back as he passes her.

“You know, I didn’t leave Europe much until recently,” he tells her quietly, over the sound of the water. “But I’ve always had a few friends ‘round these parts.”

When he finishes drying his hands, he looks up at her, and suddenly he’s just Douxie again. There’s a big smile on his face. The bags under his eyes are even more impressive than usual.

“And one of them taught me the _best_ way to make hot chocolate. Come on, I’ll show you.”

The next morning, she’s not surprised to see the report in the local news: more clashes with the police, more statues toppled. They’ve been labeled accusingly with SLAVER, COLONIZER, MURDERER in red. It’s unclear who’s responsible for the vandalism; all police and city government recording devices in the vicinity were fried in a freak accident.

Douxie’s hot chocolate had been delicious, but it hadn’t been as good as her abuela’s. This is Claire’s country in a way it isn’t really Douxie’s. In a way she’s not sure _any_ country’s really Douxie’s any more. Claire takes a deep breath.

“Take me with you next time, Teach.”

He sputters, and argues, and then finally backs down. Merlin’s main lesson to Douxie had been that hard work is important, but Claire already knew all about hard work before him. Douxie’s main lesson to _her_ is that every little thing you do helps. This is a little thing she wants to do.

And sometimes he’s her wise, nine-hundred-year-old teacher, but sometimes he’s her cool, nineteen-year-old brother. You don’t need magic to make a difference. (He does make her swear to _never_ tell her parents and memorize like, five different numbers to call if necessary.)

Then they go paint the town red.


End file.
